Daydreams and Nightmares
by Hybriseia
Summary: Nothing but death and sorrow were brought by their first encounter with Standartenführer Hans Landa almost three years ago. Now she is well-off, leading a life of dissolution and purposelessness, but is far from being happy nevertheless. However, a meaningless clash tore her away from her lethargy, turning her whole world upside.
1. Once upon a time

_**A warm welcome to all readers!**_

_The plot of the story may appear familiar to some of you because I have published a similar story some time ago, but wasn't satisfied with the way I wrote and the direction the story took. So I started to rewrite it, kicking out some things and bringing in lots of new ideas you – hopefully – will like._

_**Disclaimer**__: I own nothing but all characters written by myself._

_Last but not least, I'd like to thank my awesome beta-reader LittleXMissXFatale for being so patient and kind to edit this chapter._

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It was a pleasant day, the sun was shining, but a stiff breeze blew over the grass-covered hill when Cécile LaPadite got on her old bike and took the country road to the small town close to Strasbourg. A basket hung on the handlebars for the purchases she had to make there. The road sloped gently, so she hardly had to pedal.

Nothing caught her attention as she was drove along the main road until she reached the market square with the war memorial of the Great War. Braking sharply, her gaze fell on a couple of motorcycles and two German soldiers, standing to attention, also on an open cabriolet parking straight onto pavement in front of the small gendarmerie.

The driver stood next to the car door, snapping to attention, as the officer talked seriously to Constable Ladoux. Cécile could discern his worried expression even from this distance. An uneasy feeling came over her. This was the second time within a year the small town and its surrounding area were descended on by soldiers of the Reich.

She started slightly as Ladoux' gaze fell upon her. The foreign officer turned around, catching sight of her. She had the odd premonition that she was the subject of their conversation. The Constable's serious look seemed to confirm her presumption. Putting on a brave face, she continued driving along the main street. Cécile failed to notice the foreign officer staring after her.

After getting bread from the bakery, she drove to the small chapel at the end of the town where the graveyard laid. She leant her bike on the wrought-iron door and made her way to a grave. _Anne LaPadite, née Kramer, 1902 – 1926_ was carved onto the gravestone. The late summer sun, still burning down from the sky, had dried up the flowers, so Cécile immediately went to the well to get water for them.

Lost in her thoughts she watered the flowers, staying for a moment in front of the grave. The woman lying here was a stranger to her. She was too young to remember her, her father Pierre had always told her when she asked after her mother. A painful melancholy overcame her nevertheless as she stood at her mother's grave, thinking about what would be if she were still alive. Old photographs and vague memories of certain moments – which however could only be imaginations as well – were the sole things she had.

Turning her back to the grave, she left the graveyard to say a prayer in the chapel. Her father was a strict Catholic and she tried to emulate him as good as she was able to. Needless to say that she wasn't always successful. It was silent after closing the heavy oak door behind her. A musty smell was in the air, just like a stone wall smelled after centuries. The stained-glass windows absorbed the sunshine, dipping the nave in a colourful half-light. Cécile made a curtsey in front of the altar, kneeling down in the first pew and pulling out her rosary from the pocket of her cardigan. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen," she mumbled and made the sign of the cross. "Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, creatorem coeli et terrae-"

She interrupted her prayer as the door fell shut behind her. Cécile looked around in surprise. It was the foreign German officer talking to Ladoux earlier before. Undecided what to do, she finally turned back, paying full attention to the altar and crucifix. Would he leave when he saw that she was praying? She hoped so.

"Et in lesum Christum, Filium eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine-" She interrupted herself once more as the officer's steps subsided next to her. He hadn't left the chapel. She looked up at him with shyness.

Regarding her, a charming smile appeared on his face. He took his cap off. "Pourrais-je prendre place?" he asked in perfect French, gesticulating towards the empty space on the pew.

Cécile nodded hesitantly; after all it was never a good idea to refuse an officer. He clicked his heels and took a seat while she looked over him. He was of middle age, surely passed forty. His hair at the temples had already turned grey and many wrinkles were lying around the corner of his eyes and mouth. Although – and to her own surprise – Cécile had to admit that it did suit him. His dark eyes gave her the uneasy feeling of seeing through her, even before speaking to each other, and his expressive chin made him appear even more masculine and dominant. Her look moved over his grey uniform and the black leather coat. Neither did she know what rank he was holding nor what credit he got his medals for, but her feeling advised her to be careful.

"Monsieur"? she asked with a hushed voice.

"You must be Mademoiselle Cécile LaPadite?" he replied instantly.

"Oui," she mumbled. Her heart jumped as he gave her a charming smile and took her hand, carefully bringing it to his mouth to blow a kiss on her skin. His lips weren't too soft yet too rough, they were masculine, just like a man's lips should be.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, may I introduce myself? Standartenführer Hans Landa of the SS," the foreign officer continued. Cécile found a slight accent through his perfect French, a type of German, but so soft and melodic like she had never hear before. "Excuse me if I occupy your time, but I'd like to have a chat with you, if you don't mind," he said with an expectant look.

"Err, of course," Cécile answered with a nod, rising from her knees to take a seat on the pew.

"You aren't nervous, are you?" he asked as he recognized the young woman kneading her hands. She smiled in embarrassment and lowered her eyes. A shiver crept over her back when he laid his arm around her shoulder. "Maybe you can imagine why I'm here."

She gave a short, indefinable look and cleared her throat. "No," she answered, shaking her head.

"No?" the Standartenführer replied. She continued looking down at her hands. "Well, so I want to inform you, Mademoiselle. It's because of your former neighbours, the Dreyfus family." His words made Cécile jump involuntarily. She kept quiet. "Provided that I'm well-informed, they've vanished all of a sudden, haven't they?" he probed her.

"Th-they escaped to Spain," she answered, her voice slightly trembling. Cécile started to suspect him of not being fooled so easily like the other officers before who also asked unpleasant questions about their neighbours.

"To Spain? I thought that Franco and his rebels have less affection for Jewish refugees," he returned casually.

His words were like a punch in the stomach. "Th-they wanted to travel onward to the United States," she quickly tried to explain.

"Travelling onward with what kind of funds?" Landa replied, eyebrows raised, his dark eyes resting on her.

"Monsieur?" she asked, unsure about what he meant.

"For all I know by the report of Obersturmführer Drexel who paid you a visit around half a year ago is that the Dreyfus' have left their farm all of a sudden without being seen by someone any more. The Obersturmführer detected during the search of their home that numerous valuables were left behind, so I'm wondering where the Dreyfus' got corresponding funds to purchase transit papers to the United States." His look had become sharper by now.

Cécile was suddenly overcome with the feeling as if someone was pulling the rug from under her feet. "Err . . ." she uttered.

"And you're absolutely sure that everything you told me is correct and you answered my questions to the best of your knowledge?" the Standartenführer continued.

She nodded shyly. A winning and charming smile then crossed his face to her endless astonishment; the very smile he regarded her with as he entered the chapel. He clapped his hands together. "Excellent, Mademoiselle. You surely agree to file a deposition, do you?"

"To file a deposition?" she repeated.

"There's no great hurry. It's sufficient for me when you come to the gendarmerie tomorrow."

Pleasant silence reigned in the small chapel as both remained sitting there without any further word. "You're Monsieur LaPadite's only daughter, are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Oui," she answered nodding.

"And he hasn't remarried after the early and regrettable death of his wife?" Landa continued.

"No, he hasn't." His questions made her feel uneasy like he actually knew all the answers, only pursuing a certain goal.

Suddenly, his hand fell upon her thigh, next to her lap. Cécile started to feel both queasy and excited, a wave of fire came through her lower abdomen like she had never experienced before. Her heart was beating rapidly and untamed; redness covered her cheeks, making her pale skin look warm and rosy; her breath quickened, and a thin trace of sweat formed between her shoulder blades. She pulled her skirt further over her knees to hide the confusing feeling of her young body. Landa couldn't help but chuckle.

"Do I cause embarrassment to you?" he asked, acting the innocent.

"I-I better go home now, Monsieur, my father is probably waiting for me," she replied, trying to push his hand away from her lap.

"You shouldn't worry your father then," Landa said with a nod. He took hold of her hand, blowing a kiss upon her knuckles. A kind of fire, comparable with an electric shock, flashed through her lower abdomen, making her hand lie in his, trembling and paralyzed. "Like I said, I have to ask you to go and see Constable Ladoux at the gendarmerie to file your deposition tomorrow afternoon."

"Of course." She nodded quickly.

Both of them left the chapel; the door fell shut quietly, but firmly. "Until tomorrow, Mademoiselle," Landa bid farewell. He gave her a last charming, almost mischievous smile before he left.

Cécile looked behind him for some time, then – like waking up from a dream – she jumped onto her bike. Her gaze fell upon the graveyard wall where a strapping crow was sitting and watching her. Her black eyes flashed and she cawed maliciously. "Shhh, go away," Cécile cried out, clapping in her hands to chase off the bird. Instead the crow fluttered her wings and flew only a few inches over her head. The young woman let out a squeal in fright. The crow sat in a carefree manner on the Madonna figure, looking cheekily at her, scratching the stone with her claws.

Cécile turned away quickly. She pulled the coarse cardigan closer around her and pedalled hard. The bell of the chapel stroked on the hour behind; the sun setting in the west made the front of the houses start to glow with a deep red fire. All the harder she pedalled, only wishing to get home as quickly as possible.

**Later at the evening . . .**

"Does he really look handsome?" Shosanna asked grinning.

"Pardon?" Cécile replied. She hardly believed what she just had heard.

"Ah come on, you heard what I said. You're pretty reserved, so he must have tantalized you somehow." Cécile kept silent, making Shosanna grin knowingly. Both young women knew each other well enough and could hide little from one another.

Cécile however couldn't force herself to grin. Shosanna was right that this German officer of the SS – Standartenführer Landa or whatever his name was – had tantalized her, but she felt queasy. But she had talked neither to her father nor to Monsieur and Madame Dreyfus about her premonition, she was too afraid of making a fool of herself. She couldn't even say what exactly was causing the concern.

"It's serious," Cécile then mumbled, staring at the ceiling with a thoughtful gaze. "And besides he's surely as old as Papa, even older perhaps." She frowned as Shosanna giggled.

"Well, so he knows how to satisfy a woman's desire at least," she replied. "A mature man is something completely different to a young lad."

"Yeah, because you're so experienced," Cécile grumbled.

"I am," Shosanna said laughing and winking at her. "Serge was a disaster."

Cécile rolled her eyes; both girls had been making numerous derisive remarks about the said young fellow, but now the German officer seemed to be the more urgent problem. "I felt so queasy when he had pumped me for information in the chapel," she continued. "He also has doubted the story of your escape to Spain. Who has actually made up the story?"

"Uncle Bob," Shosanna answered. "You know that he was fighting with the International Brigades in Spain."

"He then had to know that Franco and his rebels are more disposed towards the Nazis than the Jews," Cécile mumbled.

"Of course he does," Shosanna answered with a nod. "But he has been there for more than three years, so we thought it would be credible to act like he had gotten to know people there to enable us to escape from here."

"It would have been more credible if Papa and I had told the Germans that you made your way via Vichy and Casablanca to the United States."

Shosanna nudged her. "Don't be so pessimistic," she said. "By the way, I think I will accompany you tomorrow."

"Are you mad or something?" Cécile cried out. She sat up abruptly, staring at her friend with dismay.

"Not at all," Shosanna contradicted. "And accompanying wasn't accurate; I will only come a little way with you. I need to get out of here. Just even thinking about spending this night under the floor again . . . but Mama doesn't want to take the risk." She sighed quietly.

"She's right," Cécile said.

But Shosanna raised her eyebrows in mocking manner. "If you think so . . ."

"Shosanna!" Madame Dreyfus called from the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm coming," she called back. Shosanna bent closer to Cécile and stroked a strand of hair back behind her ear, smiling gently, almost affectionately. Her friend forced herself to a faint smile which Shosanna noticed. She watched her sharply before she kissed her lips.

Cécile replied the kiss in a shy and hesitant manner, Shosanna however was bolder as she wrapped her arms about Cécile's shoulders and pulled her closer to her. "Shosanna . . ." her best friend then mumbled. Cécile's cheeks were reddened and she turned away in embarrassment, unable to hide her confusion and shame.

Shosanna regarded her with an illegible expression and rose from the bed at last. "Good night, and have some nice dreams about your officer." She sounded almost condescendingly before she disappeared.

Cécile continued sitting on her bed indecisively before she took out her nightgown from under her blanket and got undressed. She scrutinized her naked body in the mirror at the wall, slowly stroking over her breasts and belly. Was Shosanna right with claiming that she fancied the Standartenführer? Of course she didn't! Yet there had been something in his gaze and in the way he touched her which made her shiver. Even thinking about his hand upon her thigh made her feel queasy; but also she felt as light as a feather.

Sighing slightly, she slipped into her nightgown and went to bed. She felt guilty about the confusing feeling she had for this man and about the intimate touches of her best friend. But could both of them be a sin when it comes from the depths of her heart?

Cécile turned aside and put out the light of the candle upon her bedside table. The darkness, normally so familiar and pleasant, today felt heavy and overwhelming. She pulled over her blanket, hiding underneath it. It took a long time to fall asleep nevertheless.


	2. Twists and turns

_I'd like to thank you for the interest you show in this story, especially those who were so kind to leave a review! Feedback is always appreciated! Now enjoy ;D_

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Highly concentrated, Cécile painted her lips with a crimson lipstick, before scrutinizing herself in the mirror. She was intimidated by her unusually glamorous appearance; her strawberry-blonde hair fell over her shoulders in long curls, forming a contrast to her black Sunday best and to the little black hat with netting. Her eyes, grey-blue like the stormy sea, were accentuated by a grey eye shadow and soft rouge banished the paleness of her cheeks which were already slightly flushed by excitement.

She heard someone whistling behind her. Shosanna stood in the doorway, her eyes wandered over her best friend and she was unable not to admire her beauty, yet she felt the envy rising up inside her. She knew she would never reach this perfection of female beauty personified by Cécile; lean and wiry like Shosanna was, almost like a boy. However, her boyish figure was advantageous now. Dressed in old trousers and a loose shirt which covered her flat breasts and the hardly existing curves of her hips, her ash-blonde hair hidden under a cap, nobody would or could reveal her true identity.

Cécile looked at her critically, Shosanna grinned instead. "Well, you've got all dressed up for your dashing officer, haven't you? You fancy him, don't you?" she teased her, eyebrows slightly raised.

Cécile pretended indifference, yet she was annoyed at Shosanna for revealing her intention. "Do you really want to accompany me? You shouldn't run the risk of getting caught, you know."

"I beg you," Shosanna replied, rolling her eyes, "who would recognize me? Besides I'll accompany you only half the way to the bridge. All I want is to get some fresh air, just fresh air. I'm going to get sick from hiding under the floor all the time, all day, all night, it makes me sick . . ." She sighed heavily with a bitter expression in her pale-blue eyes. "You're lucky," she suddenly said, looking up at her best friend.

Unpleasantly affected, she shifted from one foot to the other. "I'm sure it's certainly going to be better soon," she answered, lowering her eyes. Shosanna's sneering face revealed her words as empty talk.

"It will only get better if either the Jews or the Nazis are wiped out." Her voice was harsh and full of resignation. "Now come on, or you will be late for your rendezvous." She turned around and went down the wooden steps, leaving her worried friend behind.

Cécile looked at the mirror once more. There was a considerable difference between the farm girl of yesterday, dressed in a coarse cardigan and a long skirt, her hair fixed into a simple bun, and the elegant young woman of today. She turned away, following Shosanna down the steps.

Her father, Pierre, and Bob, or rather Robert Duval, sat at the large table, discussing the precarious situation they were in. Madame Dreyfus, Robert's sister, and her husband Monsieur Dreyfus, his brother-in-law, had joined them. "We should calm down instead of having to worry needlessly. Cécile will go to the gendarmerie today, give evidence and that's it. And if this Nazi comes over here, you simply tell him what you already told the other Nazi officer half a year ago: That we, all the Dreyfus' and I, have made our way to Spain," Robert said, leaning against the chair back, looking quite confident as he puffed on his cigarette.

"Perhaps . . . but it's not quite kosher, Bob, and you shouldn't take our situation lightly," Madame Dreyfus warned her brother.

Robert sighed, trying hard not to roll his eyes, but looked up at Cécile then. The smile he gave her was soft and affectionate. Pierre arose to embrace his daughter, kissing her forehead. "You do know what you have to tell the officer?" he asked. Cécile nodded; her gaze was resting on Robert. "Take care, love," Pierre whispered, kissing her forehead once more.

"Come on, I'll get your bike from the shed," Robert said, rising up from the table. Both made their way out of the house to the shed where Shosanna was already waiting for them. She immediately started to discuss with her uncle who opposed her intention to accompany Cécile vigorously. "I beg you, don't be stupid. If your parents discover that you're cycling around just like that-"

"But you can't lock me up in there like an animal in a cage! I can't stand it anymore! It's getting on my nerves, it's sickening me!" Shosanna snapped at her uncle.

"Do you think I'm delighted about the current situation, having no private life anymore?" Robert replied curtly.

Shosanna kept quiet, but the glance she cast at her uncle was full of resistance. She grabbed her bike and rode off. Robert heaved a sigh of exhaustion. "She's seeking freedom," he explained Cécile. "I understand her hating all of this, this boring country life, missing change, the narrow-mindedness of the people, and now she's even forced to spend her life hiding under a floor. I know how she feels, Cécile, I know because I feel the same way, but what can we do?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "All we can do is pray."

"Pray!" Robert laughed contemptuously. "Yes, we could pray but there's no point! Be lenient with me, but I have seen too much when I was serving, too much to still believe in God, just like every other soldier I guess, no matter if he's Christian or Jewish or whatever. I can't understand your father and my brother-in-law being so religious, believing the Good Lord will protect them! It's a childish fallacy. I have said so many times that we have to take matters into our own hands. But you see, nobody can go against one's nature, neither Shosanna, neither your father, neither my brother-in-law nor can I do so . . ."

Robert laid his hand upon her shoulder, turning her around to face him. "Cécile . . . " he whispered. She cast down her eyes in embarrassment. "Look at me," Robert mumbled. His heartbeat quickened as she looked up, looking directly into his eyes. Driven by the deep affection he felt for her, the desire she caused in him, he leaned forward, kissing her with passion and with desperation. She almost melted by the soft way he touched her body, pressing her back against the wooden wall of the shed.

"Come with me, Cécile, let's leave this damn country, let's go to Casablanca and make our way to the United States. What kind of life can we expect to have here? There's no future for us." Robert watched her closely, watching every expression on her face. She however pushed him slightly away.

"It's a dream, Robert, just a dream. We have no funds for transit visas," she replied sadly.

Robert sighed in agreement. "But it's our dream . . ."

Cécile nodded and they kissed again. They had no idea that it was their last kiss in this life. "Wish me well," she said, "that the Standartenführer will believe me."

Robert's melancholic gaze accompanied her when she took her bike and rode off. Driving past the apple tree next to the courtyard gate, she saw an apple drop off the tree. She braked sharply, picking it up from the dirt. The apple was still unripe and tasteless. She put it into her purse and continued following Shosanna. "Hey, wait!" she called, panting heavily. Shosanna's expression was cold and upset. "What's up?" Cécile asked, gasping for breath.

"Nothing," she answered tersely. Cécile raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "How long has this been going on between you two?" Shosanna asked all of a sudden.

"What?" Cécile returned.

"Don't play innocent with me!" Shosanna's eyes flashed with anger. She abruptly braked, turning aside on the dusty field path.

"Where are you going?" Cécile cried out, but Shosanna was already out of sight. She had a vague idea of what her best friend was upset about, yet she couldn't understand her anger. Robert had no wife or children after all, so she wasn't taking Robert away from somebody. Was the relationship with her uncle so unbearable for her? Never would she gamble her friendship with Shosanna, but her feelings for Robert appeared to be serious . . .

Shaking her head, she continued cycling along the main road towards the small town. The closer she came to the gendarmerie, the more nervous she felt. Her hands trembled slightly when she got down from her bike, leaning it against the wall of the large building. Entering the gendarmerie, she noticed her mouth becoming dry; her tongue was paralyzed by agitation. Her heart was in her mouth when she met the Standartenführer's gaze who joined Constable Ladoux sitting at his desk, chatting with him in the most friendly and cheerful manner. Ladoux however answered as shortly as possible without offending against decency.

"Ah Mademoiselle," the Standartenführer called out, clapping his hands. "How wonderful that your coming could be arranged; and how lovely you look. Enchanté," he welcomed her. Arising from his chair, he took her hand and blew a soft kiss on her knuckles.

Cécile smiled in both embarrassment and delight. She almost felt his hot breath on her skin, even though she wore her black kid gloves. Like a fish on dry land, she opened and closed her mouth a few times without uttering a single word. How handsome he looked! She noticed that he was wearing an even smarter uniform than yesterday; it must be his dress uniform she suspected. Cécile looked up at him with big eyes as he laid an arm around her waist, pushing her gently yet firmly out of the building. "Monsieur?" she finally asked.

Patting her hand, he explained: "There's no reason to be concerned, Mademoiselle. I would rather talk with you over a cup of coffee instead of subjecting you to interrogation if you agree." He looked at her expectantly, so she nodded quickly although she would have felt safer in Ladoux' presence. But how could she reject his suggestion without appearing impolite or, worse, annoying him? She actually had no choice, and he was aware of this fact for sure. To grin and bear it, that was the only thing she could do.

For the moment however, there was nothing unpleasant to bear. After offering his arm to her, they strolled along the Rue Royal in the direction to the marketplace where the sole café of the town was. Cécile noticed the bewildered gazes of the other citizens as she walked the streets. After passing her, they started gossiping. "Your fellow citizens seem to have a restricted attitude to morality," the Standartenführer said. His eyebrows were raised and he grinned mockingly.

"Oui," Cécile answered nodding, and hesitated a moment before she added: "Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" Landa repeated, giving her a gaze in passing. "So you would like to have another kind of life? Living without any restrictions, following your own fashion?"

"No," she replied after remaining silent for a few moments.

"Might I ask why? A young woman like yourself would want to be obsessed by the wish to pattern her life on her own ideas . . ." His gaze rested on her, she had aroused his curiosity with her extraordinary answers. Seldom did he find interest in someone, and this aloof girl, equipped with little education and an ordinary appearance, was appealing him in an odd way. Her answer however was a disappointment.

"To pattern a life on your own ideas must be difficult if you have no concrete ideas," she mumbled.

"So you're happy beyond all your wishes, Mademoiselle?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. Opening her mouth, she started answering, but stopped then. She licked her lips, betraying her insecurity. "Now?" Landa asked impatiently, sounding like a stern father.

"Rather sad beyond all my wishes," she answered finally, keeping her head lowered.

They said nothing; Cécile by embarrassment about giving herself away, and Landa by astonishment about the unexpected revelation of her inner life but had quickly gotten back to his usual skilfulness, nodding invitingly towards the glass café door, decorated with the golden ornate inscription _Café de la Place de la Victoire_.

The small bell on the door rang as they entered the café which was deserted since it was late afternoon on workdays; only the owner Monsieur Boudier was leaning against the bar, reading the newspaper. Hearing the bell, he looked up; his full, normally reddened face turned pale, his mouth was opened in disbelief, astonishment and undisguised curiosity. Landa pulled her deliberately yet intransigently in direction to a small table at the back, hardly visible from the bar.

Holding the handle on her purse tightly, Cécile sat down on the chair offered chivalrously by the Standartenführer before he took a seat opposite her. "Sad beyond all your wishes . . ." Landa repeated thoughtfully, taking off his cap, watching her sharply. "What may be the reason for that?"

Cécile frowned, but could detect no mockery in his voice. Monsieur Boudier turned up finally. "Ah, good man, two pieces of Tarte Tatin, a café serré for me and for the Demoiselle . . ." He looked at her questioning.

"A café crème, s'il vous plait," Cécile said. Nodding, Monsieur Boudier went back to the bar, not without turning around to the odd couple once more.

Silence weighed heavily on the table; Cécile played with her curls, looking at everything yet not at Landa who watched her closely though. His dark eyes had a weird sparkle. "Why?" he asked all of a sudden.

"Pardon?" she returned.

"Your sadness beyond all your wishes."

Luckily, Monsieur Boudier turned up again, relieving her from giving an answer. "Well then, the café serré for Monsieur le Colonel and the café crème for Mademoiselle LaPadite," he said, serving the cups and the gateau.

"Ah," Landa called out, clapping his hand, "do you have some whipped cream?"

"Évidemment, Colonel," Monsieur Boudier nodded.

"So . . . can we have some?" Landa enquired, smiling with pointed friendliness. Monsieur Boudier nodded once more before bustling back to the bar and coming back immediately with a small bowl of cream. He gave a dab of the cream on each piece and Landa beckoned him to leave. Staring at the small bouquet of cut flowers on the table, Cécile first looked up when Landa reached for the sugar bowl. "So?" he asked decisively.

His pushiness wore her down. "I thought I simply should give a deposition," she returned, unable to tone down the disapproving tone in her voice.

"Do you mind combining business with pleasure?" he enquired instead.

"Of course not," she answered, shaking her head, "but-" She stopped, biting her lower lip.

"But?" Landa repeated. Eating his Tarte Tatin, he gesticulated her to continue.

Cécile watched him as if she wanted to guess his reaction on her coming answer. "Look," she mumbled, eyes cast down, "you put me in an embarrassing situation. What will people think if you're strolling along with me for the entire world to see, offering me your arm, visiting a café with me? And people will think even worse of me because I'm already so old and still unmarried-"

"And why are you still unmarried?" he interrupted her.

"Pardon?" she asked, although she understood him perfectly well.

"Well, you're a lovely young woman, so I find no reason why you still have no husband." His dark eyes slipped over her appearance, assessing her value like it seemed to her.

"I actually don't know why," she answered honestly to her amazement. "There . . . there was no opportunity until now."

"So you want to wait for the love of your life, don't you?" She remained silent, so he bent forward, placing his hand on hers. "Do you actually believe in love?"

"Why are you asking me?" she replied with a trembling voice. Instead of answering, he continued stroking her hand tenderly. "You're mocking me . . ." she whispered.

"No," Landa said, increasing the pressure on her hand. Cécile tensed up, but offered no resistance to him. "You're just fascinating to me, Mademoiselle."

Cécile snorted disparagingly. "I'm fascinating to you? What's on me that could fascinate you? My little education, my ordinary appearance? I'm just a farmer's girl, but I'm not completely dumb or naive. You can save your sweet talk." She looked bravely at him, however the intensity of her gaze betrayed her lack of assurance, and Landa discerned in this moment what great effect he had on her.

His left hand still placed on hers, patting it gently, he placed his right hand on her thigh as if by accident. She gasped, and this so innocent, chaste sound aroused him. He tried hard to suppress a triumphant grin, regarding the young woman with an apologetic expression. "I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, I never meant to offend you," he said. Abruptly, he pulled his hands away. Cécile gave a sigh of relief. "Now, I already have written down the information you gave me yesterday which matched with your then deposition you gave to Obersturmführer Drexel, and so I have to approach you for one last thing."

"Oui?" Cécile asked, hands clung around the handles of her purse again.

"You'd just have to confirm your deposition with your signature."

"Of course," she nodded quickly, arising immediately even though she hadn't taken a slip from her coffee. She already longed to be back home, throwing herself in Robert's arms.

Landa was a bit surprised by her sudden departure, but laid some Reichsmark on the table, following her. Leaving the café, she had taken the way back to the gendarmerie, but he held her up. "Please excuse all the trouble, Mademoiselle, but unfortunately I have the papers at my accommodation in the inn." He gesticulated towards the imposing building diagonally opposite the market place.

All Cécile wanted to do was sign those papers. She truly wasn't dumb or naive, but her gullibility and her trust on morals prevented her from conjecturing him to misuse this situation. Dusk was approaching as they crossed the place with the monumental war memorial from the Great War. The flag of the _Republique française_ was replaced by a swastika flag.

"This way," Landa said, leading the young woman away from the bar and towards the stairs no sooner they had entered the inn. Letting her go ahead, his gaze fell automatically on her well-rounded bottom and hips which her black dress stressed across. He would take her this way he decided right away. Arriving at the top of the stairs, she looked around, innocent and tame like a little lamb shortly before getting slaughtered, unsuspecting its fate until the end. The sadist inside him was amused about this comparison. Like a wolf he would feast on her blood, the blood of her virginity that he'd shed. Just one question remains, so he thought while he invited her in the friendliest and kindest way to enter his accommodation, the question for whose sins her blood would be shed. The sadist inside him was even more amused about this wordplay.


	3. And lead us not into temptation

_Hello back again! I'd really like to thank you for all the reviews you left what's truly motivating, plus I'd like to thank my wonderful beta-reader LittleXMissXFatale for her appreaciated work! Now enjoy ;D_

_Warning: There's some sexual content what may be offensive, so this chapter is rated NC-17._

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„Here we go, Mademoiselle." Gesticulating invitingly towards his large mahogany desk, Landa offered a chair to the young woman. He opened a folder, turning some pages before he put it down on the desk in front of her. "Please sign here," he said, pointing to the horizontal line at the lower end of the page.

The silence was only broken by the soft scratching of the fountain pen on paper as Cécile signed. Landa took the folder, regarding her signature with an amused smile. He then put it on a stack and turned his attention to her as she moved nervously back and forth on the chair. She cleared her throat. "I should really leave now, Monsieur-"

"Standartenführer," he corrected her. "Technically speaking, you have to address me with my military rank."

She looked up at him, intimidated by his words, and had no idea of what she should think about his sharp reprimand. "Oui, Standartenführer," she mumbled with a nod. Looking over her with a paternal smile, Landa stepped closer to her so that both of their bodies almost touched. "Standartenführer, please-" Cécile begged. She didn't dare to leave without his permission; even she had this queasy feeling, caused by his presence, again. When he raised his hand, stroking tenderly over her full lips, she gasped in fear – and in arousal. "Don't, please", she mumbled.

"Don't what?" he asked, grinning mischievously. She remained silent, but her big, grey-blue eyes begged him to stop stroking over her lips. "What soft lips you have, Mademoiselle," he suddenly said, pulling her even closer to him. "So soft and so innocent . . . I wonder if a man has ever tasted the softness, the sweetness of these lips . . ." Cécile gasped as Landa forced her into a kiss. Her whole body convulsed against his, her hands were on his silver and gold epaulettes but she neither tried to push him away nor interrupt this kiss. Instead she sensed a warm feeling in her lower abdomen, a heat rising between her thighs. It was wrong, it was forbidden, yet it felt so good, sinfully good, sweeter than the apple Eve ate from. This kiss was nothing but the pure sin, dangerous and intoxicating, leading directly into the abyss.

All of a sudden he pulled back and grabbed her throat, making her gasp. "Now, Mademoiselle, enough of this play-acting," he said with the kindest smile. "Be a good girl and tell me about the Dreyfus', otherwise . . . " he slightly increased the pressure on her throat, "otherwise I'm afraid that you'll get taught a lesson . . ."

"A lesson?" she repeated with big eyes.

"Indeed," he answered nodding. "Although I think you'd . . . like it." He kissed her again, hungry and rough this time which made her feel even more aroused and dizzy. Bringing his mouth to her ear, he quietly ordered: "Undress."

Cécile gasped again, staring at him in disbelief and indignation. She wondered if his husky, seductive voice sprang directly from her mind, so she hesitated until Landa commanded again, slightly impatient now: "Undress. Otherwise tell me where the Dreyfus' are."

"I-I don't know anything-" she started sobbing, but was cut off by him.

"You're a bad, bad liar, Mademoiselle," he said, pretending a compassionate expression. Abruptly, he tore off her black dress, buttons fell on the wooden floor and she shrieked in shock. His eyes, glistening with a dark fire, rested on her silk underwear. "You put on such fine underwear only to give evidence at the gendarmerie, Mademoiselle? I rather think there's another reason . . ." The way she lowered her eyes and her cheeks got red betrayed her.

Landa smirked with amusement at the young woman in front of him before he continued to pull down her ripped dress. Her body tensed with both fear and excitement when he started to undo her brassiere. "Oh God," she whimpered, biting her lips.

Stroking gently over her cheek, he returned: "It's up to you, Mademoiselle. You can make me stop by giving me one simple information. Come on, tell me what you know and it won't be damaging to you. Whisper it in my ear . . ." He brought his ear closely to her mouth, but all he heard was her heavy breathing, so, blowing soft kisses on her throat, he pulled her panties down.

Cécile froze now, neither able to utter a sound nor to resist the hand he carefully pushed between her thighs. Moaning deeply, Landa explored the region of her body no man has ever explored before with one exception, playing with the soft, strawberry blonde down, rubbing over the small bud of her womanhood. She whimpered and moaned shrilly, her body twitched by arousal and lust, yet she was close to tears. It was wrong, yet it was so good; she felt humiliated by Landa, but couldn't hate him; she was in love with Robert, but why had his caresses never brought her to this level of excitement and lustful sensation she felt growing in her lower abdomen?

"I see you enjoy the lesson I teach you," Landa mumbled with a sly grin.

She uttered a cry as he lifted her up unexpectedly on the marble tabletop of the desk whose coldness went right through her, she got goose-bumps and her nipples hardened which Landa noticed. He bent forward, closing his mouth around her left nipple, sucking and biting the soft flesh. Her head fell backwards, giving herself to him, to all the lust and pain he caused her, and feeling his lips travel downwards over her belly between her legs, she moaned so deeply and so full of desire that Landa shivered with excitement. All the more he lowered his head into her lap, making her cry out loudly as his tongue played around her bud. Digging her hands into his sandy hair, she leant back on the marble tabletop, despite its coldness. Deeper and deeper she lost herself in the maelstrom of her wishes and passion, convulsing when Landa entered her with one finger. His satisfied – self-satisfied – grin showed that he had expected nothing but her intact virginity. Cécile sobbed suddenly which made him pull back his finger. "Shhh, relax, Mademoiselle," Landa mumbled and started to cause her pleasure again. Although she truly enjoyed his caresses, she was unable to think of someone different than Robert, her Robert who was surely going to worry about where she was. Oh Robert, she thought as she gave herself to Landa.

Now she was going to reach her climax but gave a disappointed cry when Landa pulled away. Her breasts rose and fell heavily; hot sweat was running down her temple as she looked him into his eyes, so dark and so fiery. Closing his hand around her throat once more, he kissed her surprisingly tenderly. His tongue fought with hers and she lost to him, but was already wrapping her legs around his groin, yet, grinning ominously, Landa pulled her down from the table. Cécile gave him a questioning look. Did he want to continue their love play in his bed? She wouldn't object, in fact she'd welcome this idea.

However, he grabbed her hips to turn her around and push her torso down on the cold marble tabletop. Cécile gasped, tensing up in rising panic. So does he want to have me? In this way? In such a humiliating pose? The knowledge that the coming act wouldn't have anything to do with love, tenderness or affection at least brought tears to her eyes. She started crying quietly.

"Shhh," Landa uttered, stroking reassuringly over her back, but if she would have looked up she could see no regret in his features; less did he spare her feelings. "Don't cry, Mademoiselle. I promise I'll be gentle . . . if you beg," he added maliciously.

Cécile started trembling, her lips quivered when she heard the sound of him undoing the zip of his trousers yet she couldn't force herself to beg. It struck her that she would lose the rest of her self-respect and pride otherwise. A tear dropped down over her cheeks as she felt his hot, hard member pressing against her buttocks.

"Shhh," he uttered again, rubbing over her bud. His lips travelled over her back up to her throat where he nibbled at the soft skin. "Enjoy every moment," he whispered into her ear when he entered her.

Cécile cried out loudly, rather in shock than in pain. Her fingernails scratched over the marble tabletop, searching anything to grab. Panting heavily, she pressed her forehead against the cold marble and tried to get used to the odd, unknown feeling in her lower abdomen. Landa moaned deeply as he pulled back and pushed into her again, making her gasp. She bit her lower lips in order to suppress these humiliating, quiet sounds coming out of her mouth, but moaned even louder when he slapped her buttock. "Don't act like that . . . playing the innocent . . . as if you don't enjoy it . . ." he breathed. The slaps he gave her buttocks, the hard and fast thrusts he took her with, the soft rubbing over her swollen bud, all that drove her almost mad. She writhed wildly under him until he grabbed a hand of her curls and pulled her head back so that she had to look at him over her shoulder. He closed his other hand around her exposed throat and throttled her.

Cécile struggled for breath whereupon he increased the pressure on her throat. Her gaze became blurred, she got dizzy, an unbearable pressure made her temples throb. Whimpering, she tried to pull his hand away but failed. Landa give an almost sadistic laugh and pulled her head back into her neck. She chocked in panic, her eyes got bigger and bigger she looked at him with, silently begging.

"If you only knew how beautiful you are . . ." he whispered, looking down on her. His face was flushed; beads of sweat ran down from his temples, the veins at his throat became evident. He suddenly bent forward and bit into her shoulder. No cry came out of her mouth, she only breathed. Groping for his hand, she tried again to pull it away but had no power anymore. Everything, the whole world became contorted; there was nothing but him thrusting into her, causing her both pain and pleasure. A black abyss was ahead of her and as she thought she couldn't stand any longer, a wave collapsed over her, paralyzing her, obliterating her and all her thinking so that nothing was in her but pure bliss before she fell over the edge in the abyss.


	4. At sunrise

_My dear readers, I'm deeply sorry for the long time I needed for this chapter. I'm quite occupied with my classes at university so it may take some time until I can update again. But don't worry, I'll have much time in summer where I'm – hopefully – able to update much more regularly. Thanks a lot for all the kind review; it makes me jumping with joy when I get one ;D._

_Many thanks to LittleXMissXFatale for her wonderful work as my beta-reader!_

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Cécile blinked tiredly as a faint ray of light shone directly into her face. Sighing, she snuggled deeper into the soft pillows but then stopped. How soft the pillows were, so unusually soft, so different than the ones from home, and this foreign smell hanging in them, so masculine . . . She opened her eyes in the end, looking around. The pale, reddish rays of the rising autumn sun peeked in through the cracks of the blinds and dazzled her. She screwed up her eyes but opened them wide again as she became aware of whose bed she was lying in.

Peacefully sleeping, Landa laid next to her, his chest rose and fell slowly. He appeared friendly and harmless in the bright morning light. Cécile tried to breathe in deeply but it seemed surprisingly difficult for her. Hardly was she able to swallow, her throat burnt and feeling her neck, she recognized the painful swellings there. What happened yesterday? Did I really . . . ?

She touched between her thighs, tears raised in her eyes as she felt his semen sticking to her womb and the inside of her legs. Biting her lips, she tried her hardest not to sob. I did it. It was no feverish dream and also no nightmare. What have I done?

Trembling she started to rock backwards and forwards, legs drawn up, her knees pressing against her chest, softly whimpering. Little did she care of waking him up by her sobs. What have I done, was the mere thing she thought of, what have I done?

A gentle touch of her shoulder made her start up. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle," Landa whispered. His dark eyes were still drunk with sleep, his sandy hair was all tousled but he gave her his usual charming smile. Continuing to stare at him, he sat up and kissed her surprisingly tenderly yet more tears rolled over her cheeks. "Now, now," he mumbled, embracing her. She laid her head down on his shoulder, unable to stop the torrent of tears. "Shhh," he uttered and stroked reassuringly over her curls.

"Why? Why?" Cécile continued to sob and mourn. No answer did she get but a stoic gaze from him, and all of a sudden she became clear of her feelings which touched him only marginally. She turned away, still sobbing. "If my father becomes aware of what happened between you and me . . ." she whimpered, her face hidden in her hands.

"So what then?" Landa asked in the most passing way you could imagine and suppressed a yawn. Cécile, shocked by his words, kept silent. Her eyes were glassy and empty like somebody's longing to die. "So what happens then?" he repeated with slight impatience, rising up her chin to make her look at him. She was a pitiful sight.

She shook her head, lips desperately pinched, eyes widened and reddened. "He'll beat me to death," she managed to utter, and Landa was clearly aware of the reproach and the begging in her voice. He knew that she accused him.

Nevertheless – or even just because of it – he smiled disarmingly as he patted her cheek. "My lips are sealed, Mademoiselle," he said with a sugar-sweet voice.

Cécile gave him a blank look. "Why should I trust you?" she asked astonishingly directly.

This simple statement had a deeper impact on Landa than she could imagine. All he had, all he knew, what all his success was built on was his talent to see through people, to deceive them, making them trust him, only to control them at his own discretion. So if this little country bumpkin put no trust in him, all his pretence was failed which made him stir with displeasure. "It doesn't matter whether you do or you don't," he grumbled and turned away. Then her hand caught his.

It was true that she did not trust him; nevertheless she felt how fear overcame her heart, poisoning her mind and soul. "Swear that you'll maintain silence . . . please," she begged, without any idea of how much satisfaction he felt by her last little word.

Instead of answering, Landa closed his hands around her face. He regarded her for a while, his eyes attached to her features as if he wanted to fix everything in this memory or compare her with somebody. He then kissed her on the mouth. Cécile tensed up by this inexpertly gentle behaviour, yet every fibre of her body longed for his caresses, sweet and satisfying like the sin and just as fatal. She carefully returned the kiss, approaching him, approaching his warm and strangely familiar body. He finally pressed her deliberately yet mercilessly down on the bed. "Now sleep for a while, Mademoiselle, it's just shortly after six o'clock," he mumbled, and stretched himself out next to her. Recognizing the sad expression in her eyes, he extended his arm and offered her silently to cuddle up to him.

Smiling weakly, Cécile embraced his offer. She cuddled up to him and rested her head on his shoulder. Her breath was deep and slow as he pressed her nose against his throat, inhaling his masculine scent which reminded her of the numerous nights with Robert she had spent laying in his arms, her body pressed against his, without consummating the act of love. The risk of getting pregnant would be too high, Robert submitted. He officially had left this country, so who should she present as father of the child? Besides, an illegitimate child would disgrace her.

And now everything was over. The dream Robert and she had dreamt, the dream of love and freedom if the war would be over was destroyed by the reality. By the reality and her. She sighed and noticed Landa regarding her. She cast down her eyes in embarrassment. "Ashamed?" he asked then as she nodded silently. "And why, if I may ask?"

"I wonder what you're thinking about me now since . . . since I . . . well, since I did . . . it . . . with you," she stammered with flushed cheeks.

"You mean if I think badly of you?" She nodded again and he prepared to give her a smile. "No, Mademoiselle, I don't think badly of you which may surprise you. The sense of moral is to give this very moral up swiftly. Nothing comparable has such a liberating and admittedly devastating effect on the human mind, no matter if that changes for the better or for the worse." His finger followed her aorta until it met her necklace with the silver crucifix. "You're better not to put trust in that," he reprimanded her, tipping on the cross.

"I beg your pardon," Cécile said in a tone of outrage.

Landa was amused about the honest indignation she displayed and laughed cheerfully. "You like to act innocent, don't you? I've to say that I like that. Don't shake your head, you're really coquettish and know how to turn a man's head. Now, now, don't excite yourself like that. If you're truthful with yourself, you agree."

"I never had any . . . you know . . . this kind of contact to other men-"

"But you'd like to have some," he interrupted her stammering. She looked at him in shock now. He bent closer to her, whispering: "You showed your true character yesterday evening, Mademoiselle. Don't tell me that you had no idea about my intention. You wanted it as much as I did. Didn't you enjoy every moment as I took you?" Cécile moaned softly when she felt his hand between her thighs.

"You . . . you impelled me," she breathed desperately.

"Did I?" Landa returned, eyes flashed mischievously.

"I never wanted this," she continued. The wave of heat in her lower abdomen proved her wrong. "You violated me," she finally cried out.

"Now let's not exaggerate, Mademoiselle," he reprimanded her.

Cécile sobbed heart-rendingly. Her own body had betrayed her and was about to betray her again. She felt how wet and aroused she was, and knew only too well that Landa was aware of that too. "What are you doing with me? What are you doing?" she whispered weakly, lying flatly on her back, eyes shut, her breath turning heavy. "Non, non, s'il vous plait," she whimpered in her mother tongue as he bent over her, blowing a chaste kiss on her forehead but as he besieged her no more, she opened her eyes again. A feverish dream, it's like a feverish dream, she thought, blinking at his face over her, close and yet so far away. She had to extend her hand, touching his cheek to make sure that everything was real. "What will happen now?" she asked worriedly.

Landa regarded her silently. He knew what would happen, today and tomorrow. He knew the way of the world, no matter if this way was limited on a few hours and a small place; he knew this way and enjoyed the feeling of omnipotence resulting out of it. "What do you want to hear now? That everything will come right in the end?" he then replied.

She hesitated for a moment. "Yes, sort of."

"But my love," Landa gave a laugh, "how do you imagine that?"

"Just leave the town, please. There's no need to spill innocent blood!" Cécile cried out.

"Spilling innocent blood assumes the existence of innocent blood," Landa said slowly and with an odd glisten in his eyes.

Cécile needed a moment to notice her momentous mistake. "No," she mumbled quickly, shaking the head, "that's not what I meant-"

Landa cut her off by grabbing her by her throat. "That's enough of this play-acting, my love," he said sugar-sweetly, increasing the pressure on her throat so that she loudly gasped for air.

"Nothing-" she uttered difficultly.

"Nothing? Is it that what you want to tell me? You want to tell me nothing? Oh come on, I know you," he murmured grinning.

Cécile however remained silent, even as he continued to press her throat shut. The world turned around and around, her senses ran riot, lights of all colours popped up out of nowhere in front of her eyes. She remained silent nevertheless in a fit of valour. He may kill me, but he'll never get them, Shosanna and Robert and the others. Oh Robert . . . his name came through her vegetating mind, a tear escaped the corner of her eye.

As she already thought it'd be all over, fresh air ran through her lungs. She writhed, her whole body longed for oxygen. His hand laid still on her throat, now without pressing it shut – apart from his middle finger pressing again her aorta as if he wanted to make sure that her heart was beating. Gently, he wiped the tear off her cheek. "Whom was this tear meant for?" he asked curiously. "For you? Or for another person?"

Unable to restrain her pain about her foolish mistake, even more tears ran down over her cheeks. "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu," she sobbed again and again.

Landa, lying on his back, waited patiently until she calmed down. Hate came up in her, hate about the indifference he treated her feelings, her beliefs, all her life with. As he made a move to go out of the bed, she clung to his arm nevertheless. "Wait, please! Oh please, promise that you don't do anything to the Dreyfus! Please! Don't you have a heart? I'd do anything you . . . want."

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, forgive my openness but I already had a pleasurable time with you. And don't get me wrong when I say now that you aren't worth letting the Dreyfus off in exchange. The worth between that what you're willing to give away and that what I should forgo is too different. But like I said, don't take it personally." He turned back to the mirror, reaching out for his tie.

Cécile sat on the bed in shocked amazement, wondering if her mind played a trick on her. But as he simply continued to knot the tie, whistling a cheerful melody, she realized that he wasn't joking. "Is there nothing I could do?" she finally asked. The pleading tone of her voice was miserable, but she forfeited all the pride. "You . . . also wouldn't do that for me? For the reason that you're still of good character?"

Their gazes met as Landa stopped knotting his tie and regarded her in the mirror. He then burst into laughter. "My love," he said with tears of amusement in the eyes, his face reddened, "my love, I can't stop wondering about your naivety. Like I said, I can't do anything for you."

"You monster!" she yelled in a sudden stirring of emotion, she then fell back in the pillows, completely exhausted.

"Now come on," he returned, taking place on the edge of the bed next to her. "Would you rather prefer you and your father being put straight before a firing squad for the accommodation of enemies of the state?" She gave no answer, and Landa had expected nothing else. "You need to rest now, Mademoiselle, you shouldn't upset yourself." He left for a moment and returned with a glass of water from the bathroom. "Drink this, love."

She took the glass, drinking it up. "Tastes strangely," she meant with a frown, licking her lips.

"Veronal," he simply answered. "Do get some sleep." He took the glass out from her hand and put it on the bedside table. He then pressed her gently down on the bed, pulling the blanket over her cold shoulders before he kissed her again on the forehead. Cécile hated him for this kiss, but she offered no resistance.

Loneliness came over her as soon as he had left the room, closing the door firmly behind him, as well as fear. She wanted to jump out of the bed, slipping on her clothes and running back home to warn her father and the Dreyfus but her limbs were too weak and too heavy, and she knew it wasn't caused by the Veronal. It was a paralysis coming out from deep in her; a passivity, so strong that it was almost a slavish subjugation to the power of fate.

She turned around to the other side, crying quietly until sleep overcame her.

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Hans, just having a sip of his coffee, felt how his spirits were revived. The amusement about the young thing upstairs in his bed made him occasionally grin. Her naivety was priceless indeed and he sincerely regretted that there would be no opportunity to share the bed with her again. On the other hand he hardly could imagine her having a future here in this small town. The people would hate her, the sweetheart of a German officer – he was Austrian in fact, but that was scarcely of any importance in this days. Now using the skilful tactics was the maxim of this hour, some well-put words at the due time, some tender gestures and who knows, maybe she'd accept his offer to become his mistress with the greatest of pleasure. The imagination to introduce this innocent girl into the art of love, modelling her spirit on his own will, binding her person completely to him, this imagination filled him with such a dark lust and satisfaction that he doubted even the devil being so maliciously sly.

He let his cup refill and went back to reading the newspaper.


	5. The deads remind us

_Hello back again! I deeply regret that it took so long until I can present you a new chapter, but now here it is. Again I'd really like to thank you for these kind reviews I got, there are all so wonderful. _

_And again I'd like to thank my beta-reader LittleXMissXFatale for her essential work! Now enjoy ;D_

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"Don't take it too much to heart, Monsieur," Landa said cheerfully, patting Pierre LaPadite jovially on his back who watched with empty, reddened eyes as the soldiers carried the corpses of the Dreyfus' out of the house and throwing them onto the still wet grass. "You do love your daughter Cécile, don't you?"

Pierre nodded desperately, blinking heavily to suppress the tears. What else could I do, he thought as he caught sight of little Amos – his clothes soaked with blood and full of bullet holes -, what else? He has Cécile, that undersized devil next to him, he has my own child and his threat was evident, despite – or maybe just because of – his sugar-sweet words. Little did Pierre doubt Landa making his threat true. He couldn't sacrifice his child, his little Cécile, his own flesh and blood, the last thing that remained of his beloved Anne.

He wiped the tears from the corner of his eyes, turning away. The sight of the corpses was too much for him; he already felt the nausea rising up from his stomach. To his surprise, Landa offered him, silently, his cigarette case and lighter. "Come, Monsieur LaPadite, we should make our way to the gendarmerie. You surely want to take your daughter in your arms again," Landa then said when his men poured the petrol they brought along in canister over the corpses and set them alight. The disgusting stench of burned flesh spread all over the farm, black smoke made the mild light of the late summer sun murky. Pierre turned away, following the Standartenführer back to the road where the motorcycles of the soldiers and the black car were parked.

Pierre tried to focus all this thoughts solely on Cécile as Landa's driver turned on the engine and followed the soldiers on their motorcycles along the road back to the town of Yonville. She was safe, that was all that mattered now. Yet she had no idea what price had been paid for her life and safety. Four humans had to die for her. Pierre thought with wistfulness of Shosanna who was saved by pure chance. If she hadn't been so stubborn to go again on a tour with her bicycle through the close forest, she'd have been the fifth victim. Good Lord, he didn't want to imagine her coming back and finding the burned corpses of her family. The chilly wind that was pleasant to him until now seemed to bring along her imaginary sobs. Pierre hid his face in his hands what Landa noticed.

He first looked up when the car braked and finally stopped in front of the gendarmerie. "Standartenführer," the young driver mumbled with a salute as he opened the car door for Landa.

"Thanks, Hermann," he replied with a paternal nod.

"Now where's my daughter?" Pierre asked with a faint voice.

"Just come along, Monsieur," Landa beckoned him before he entered the small building. Pierre followed him like a miserable sinner.

Constable Ladoux looked up right at the moment the men came in. He seemed to be deeply worried. Even before Landa addressed Pierre again, he approached both of them. "There was a telephone call for you. You shall immediately report to the central military administration in Paris."

"Shall I?" Landa returned, slightly surprised by the news. "Excuse me for a moment, you'll have my undivided attention in a minute," he said to Monsieur LaPadite, miming an apologetic expression, before he entered Ladoux' office to call back.

Sighing exhausted, Pierre sank on a chair, but the Constable grabbed him by the arm, shaking him. "Pierre, the whole town is in utter confusion! What for heaven's sake has your Cécile done? The people are all gossiping about it!"

Pierre gave him a blank look. "My Cécile . . . he's got her," he then whispered, nodding unnoticeably towards Landa who was still telephoning.

"He picked her up, Pierre," Ladoux replied. "Yesterday," he continued desperately, trying hard not to raise his voice, "when she was here to give evidence, he took her with him, first to the Boudier's café and then to his room in the inn."

Pierre was still giving him a blank look, yet now he was deathly pale and jumped up. Sweat ran down his temples, trembling he whispered in a clipped manner: "No . . . no . . . she would never do-"

"Pierre-" Ladoux returned, laying his hand on his shoulder, but Pierre ran simply away, out of the gendarmerie and then along the Rue Royale. The Constable suspected where he wanted to go to.

In this moment, Landa came back. "They were slightly surprised about my call in Paris. Nobody could be found who called you," he spoke in passing, yet his eyes flashed insidiously.

"So it must be a misunderstanding then," Ladoux answered, fiddling around with his tie.

"A misunderstanding indeed," Landa almost whispered. An alarming silence came up between the men. "Where's Monsieur LaPadite?" he then asked.

The Constable kept quiet and Landa was suddenly aware of what set-up was going on here. "Clever, pretty clever, my dear fellow." He smiled sweetly but Ladoux shrank back from the hard murderous sparkle in his eyes. Without another word, Landa left the gendarmerie and made his way back to the inn. He was in inner rage about this village idiot who made a fool of him by the simplest trick.

Sighing slightly, Cécile turned on her side. Her empty eyes stared into nowhere as her hands played with the crucifix on her necklace. It was already afternoon, the room was bathed in warm sunlight. She could see the blue sky through the window where greyish clouds set up slowly. She sighed again. Landa hadn't returned yet and so she began to brood if whether this was a good or a bad sign. She was still hoping that it was a good sign, that Landa had found out nothing and that the house search had been without result. Oh Papa, please . . . please don't give anything away, she begged silently, oh Papa, please sort out what I messed up.

Despite of the fear and the tormenting thoughts Cécile couldn't bring herself to get up and dress. She turned on her back and closed her eyes, yet she was unable to sleep. Finally, she sat up, putting her legs out of the bed. She ate the baguette and the jam that stood on a narrow tray on the bedside table. Landa must have put it there or ordered somebody to do so at least while she was still asleep. She started to feel queasy at the thought that somebody else than Landa could had been here in the room, could had seen her, laying naked in his bed. Shivering, she wrapped the blanket closer around her.

Not being able to find any peace of mind, she got up at last and went over to the window. The golden rays of the afternoon sun had become faint, grey shadows formed grotesque figures on the wall, extending their stunted fingers to her. The clouds became darker and darker, building up a black wall at the horizon. It would start raining at any minute.

Cécile returned to bed. Her mind was empty when she stroked over the sheet, over the blotches that her blood and his semen had left there. She was disgusted, deeply disgusted, by him, by herself, by their act of love which had been everything except full of love.

She started as heavy footsteps came up the stairs. He – Landa – must been back. With keen attention she listened, her heart was almost in her mouth at the moment. All of a sudden, the steps subsided. The floorboards groaned as if somebody were standing outside the room. Again, she pulled the blanket closer around her body. The tension was unbearable. "Qui est là?" she asked at last. The door flied open and banged against the wall. Cécile gave out a shrill shout with fright. "Papa!" she cried out.

Pierre stood frozen in the frame. His face was ashen and his forehead covered with sweat. Father and daughter stared at each other with the expression of utter horror. Cécile couldn't explain to herself how her father – her father of all people – came here. "What the hell is going on here?" Pierre then gasped.

"Papa, I-"

"Grand Dieu, it's true," Pierre mumbled, sinking backwards against the wall. For the first time in her life, she saw her father crying. Rushing to him, she kneeled next to him to lay her arms around his shoulders.

"Papa, s'il te plaît, I . . . I- " she began again but Pierre pushed her away.

"How could you do that to me?" he whispered. His face got even paler, but the veins on his temples pounded dangerously and his wide eyes stepped slightly out. Instinctively, Cécile moved away. "Do you realize what you did? They're dead, they're all dead . . ." He rubbed his eyes. "And you-" he swallowed heavily, "mon Dieu, grand Dieu, you have . . . why did you have-" He stopped and started sobbing.

"Oh Papa," Cécile mumbled. Tears ran down her cheeks, and as she approached her father, he jumped up to his feet.

"Stay away from me, you whore! The Dreyfus' had to die because of you, I . . . I thought you'd be in danger, that your life was at stake . . ." He choked, coughing like an asthmatic. Saliva ran down from the corner of his mouth. "BUT YOU," he yelled suddenly, "YOU GAVE YOURSELF TO HIM, YOU DISHONOURED ME, YOU . . . YOU MURDERED THEM!" And before Cécile could react, he gave her such a hard slap on the face that the force made her stagger and fall backwards. At first she thought the smack must had split her skull. There was nothing but this dazzling, burning pain in her head, her eyes watered, she groaned like a hurt animal, as Pierre got her by her hair, shaking her violently.

"Papa!" she screamed in fear and pain. Groping for his hand, she tried to pull it away from her curls. She screamed again as he pulled her up from the ground; it felt as if he were tearing out her hair.

"Papa? Papa?" he repeated with a mad look. "You've no father, you whore, no family! You . . ." Bringing his lips close to her ear, he whispered: "You aren't my daughter any longer." He then pushed her away; without being able to cushion the fall, she hit with full force the floorboards. A dull ache flashed through her wrist, and when something wet and hot dripped down into her right eye. She knew her temple must have been ruptured.

She felt dizzy, her gaze became blurred, laboriously she groped for something to grab. Pierre had already turned away his gaze, starting to leave. His steps were unsteady, his knees trembled like an old, inform man's, his back was hunched and stooped like someone's bearing a burden too heavy to bear it any longer. He almost staggered; his hand was searching for the banister when he left the room.

"Don't leave me here, Papa, please take me back home," Cécile sobbed, desperately trying to hide her naked body with the blanket.

Pierre stopped at her last words; she saw him fiddling around his belt. "What have I told you, whore?" he hissed. Turning around, he pulled the belt out from his waistband and stroke out with the leather onto her back. Cécile gave out a terrifying scream, her back arched by the force of this lash, her body got tense, the breathing was an agony and impossible at last when the leather belt smacked a second, a third, a fourth time down on her back. He's beating me to death, he is seriously beating me to death, ran through her dizzy mind.

"I think that's enough now, Monsieur," a voice sounded from far away, muffled by the fog surrounding her. Everything seemed to be unreal; the voices were slow and low, distorted like calls from a far distance. Her gaze was unclear by the tears, and the pain piercing her body with red-hot metal paralyzed her, obliterating everything in her, every feeling, every though until welcoming darkness embraced her.


End file.
